Hell Hath No Curry (16 page)

20

Kheema Mattar

(Mince Meat and Peas)

Ingredients

¼ cup oil

2 cloves

1 pound ground beef

2 cardamoms

1 cup yogurt

Salt to taste

1 tablespoon ginger-garlic paste

3 tomatoes, finely diced

2 medium onions, finely sliced

1 cup frozen peas, thawed and rinsed

1–2 green chilies, finely diced

¾ cup water

¼ teaspoon turmeric

Pinch coriander leaves, finely chopped

1 cinnamon stick

Yield: 8 servings

Preparation

1. Heat oil in pan and add beef, yogurt, ginger-garlic paste, onions, and chilies. Mix.

2. Then add turmeric, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and salt.

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3. Stir thoroughly and cook on medium-high heat till all the liquid is absorbed.

4. Cook this mixture till it reaches a light brown color, stirring periodically. Be careful not to allow it to burn; sprinkle a little water in if need be.

5. Now add tomatoes, peas, and water and stir thoroughly. Mixture will be liquidy. Allow to cook for a few minutes.

6. Cover and cook on low heat till peas are tender. If mixture is still too liquidy, cook uncovered.

7. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with naan.

Notes

• Fresh peas will need more cooking time than frozen peas.

• Discard whole spices before eating.

21

I let myself into the Babester’s house. Creeping as silently as a cat in a fog, I searched the place until I found my beloved in his office, hunched over his computer. Quite unnoticed, I watched lovingly for a few minutes. Alternating periods of catatonia and intense clattering of keys clued me in to the fact that he was working on his manuscript. Apparently, without any help from me, or Drustara Kurtz, my would-be author had managed to purchase his own copy of the
Lord and Spencer Idea Gift Catalogue
.

“Ahem,” I finally said, unable to bear my burden any longer.

“Holy shoofly pie!” Gabe shouted and nearly hit the ceiling with his head. The fact that he’d modified his swearword from cow excrement to a Pennsylvania Dutch dessert was something for which I could take credit.

“Hon, you nearly scared the pistachio out of me.”

“Pistachio ice cream goes well with shoofly pie. May I read what you’ve written?”

“Magdalena, you know I don’t like to share my work in progress.”

“But you’re never done, so it’s always in progress. Now I’ll never get to see it.”

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“What do you mean by that?”

“Gabe, where’s your mother?”

“Outside, choosing a location for her garden.”

“Garden?” Trying to imagine Ida tilling the soil was like try -

ing to picture a rap singer performing at the court of Louis XIV.

Like oil and water, the ideas didn’t mix.

Gabe nodded in mock solemnity. “Someone told her there was a lot of money to be made by planting polyester bushes.”

“It was a joke. I didn’t think she’d actually consider it. Why didn’t you stop her?”

He chuckled. “Because it got her off my back. I swear, Mags, she’s worse than you; she’s always trying to read over my shoulder.”

“Well, you won’t be having that problem any longer.”

“Yup. As soon as she finds out that Miller’s Feed Store doesn’t sell polyester seed—”

“Not her—
me
.”

“What?”

“Darling,” I said, daring to use the word for the first time, “do you mind if we go downstairs to your buttery-soft Italian leather sofa to talk about this?”

“I think maybe I do very much. At the very least, I don’t like where this conversation seems to be headed.”

“But darling, you knew from the beginning, like I did, that we really didn’t stand a chance.”

“The heck we didn’t! Who’s gotten to you, Magdalena? Has that minister from Maryland been turning you against me?”

“No.”

“Then who? What’s this all about?”

“Gabe, we’re not on the same page—we’re not even in the same Bible. I mean we are, but you only subscribe to half of it.”

“I don’t subscribe to any of it—not literally. You’ve known that about me from almost the beginning.”

“Yes, but I thought I could change you. That if I was a proper HELL HATH NO CURRY

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witness to the Lord, you would eventually see the light and be saved.”

“And I told you that as much as I hated you thinking I was wrong—doomed to Hell, or whatever your religion teaches—it was worth putting up with in order to spend the rest of my life with you. Just as long as you kept the sermons short and to the point.”

“Are you saying now that you don’t even believe in Hell?”

“Judaism is not about Heaven or Hell. It’s about performing acts of loving kindness in this life. Darn it, Magdalena, now you’ve got me defending a faith to which I no longer subscribe.

The kind acts, yes, but—shoot, I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation.”

I could feel my chin quiver. I hate it when my body betrays me. Pretty soon the tears would well up, and then my face would turn blotchy, and unless I did something drastic, a whimper might even escape my trembling lips.

“I love you, Gabriel Rosen.” The force of my words surprised even me. “I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, and I never will! But it’s over between us. It has to be; we are just too different. It never would have worked. But I thank God for the time we had together, and I pray that He will bless you, and keep you safe, and that someday—”

“I’ll see the light and beg to be converted?”

“That’s not fair! I’m pouring out my heart, and you—you—”

Truth be told, I was grateful that he’d made me angry again.

Anger can be a very destructive emotion, but I’d pick it over pain any day.

“Just go, Magdalena, and take your self-righteousness with you. Maybe someday you’ll come to your senses and realize that when you start applying a literal interpretation to one collection of ancient tribal legends, you may as well do it to all of the others.

So go, Magdalena, go with Zeus!”

I turned on a narrow heel to flee from the room, but it was not 134

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going to be a graceful exit. In the doorway, standing as still as a garden gnome, and almost as pretty, was Gabe’s mother, Ida.

“So,” she hissed, springing to life, “you tink my son is not good enough for you?”

“Of course not! I mean, he
is
good enough, but—Mrs. Rosen, with all due respect, this really isn’t your business.”

“My son
is
my business.”

I looked at Gabe, who looked like a deer caught in the head-lights. It was then that I realized that, matters of faith set aside, our breakup would have been inevitable. Matthew 19:5 states that a man shall leave his mother and cleave unto his wife. But as long as Ida Rosen was in the picture, there wasn’t going to be any cleavage.

“Tell me something, Ida,” I said, trying mightily to control my voice. “Deep down inside—maybe even not so deep—you’re happy that Gabriel and I are breaking up. Isn’t that right?”

Ida rolled her eyes. “Oy, this one talks like a blintz.”

“Ma, answer her question.”

“
Nu,
vhat’s to answer? Of course I’m not happy. How could I be happy? Gabeleh, is it too much to vant that you should marry a nice Jewish girl? New York vas full of them, but here? Nothing but shikses.”

“Ma,” Gabe moaned.

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “She has a right to her opinion. Everyone in Hernia is saying the same thing, but in reverse. But you, Gabriel, for your own good, you need to cut the apron strings.

You’re almost fifty years old, for crying out loud. Isn’t it time you learned to cut your own meat as well?”

Gabe reddened. “I know how to cut meat, darn it, but if it gives Ma satisfaction, who am I to deny her?”

“A grown man.”

“You’re treading on thin ice, Magdalena. Who still lives in the house she was born in?”

“That’s not a fair comparison; my parents are dead.”

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135

“Yet your mother still controls you. Isn’t that right, Magdalena?”

I slipped off my engagement ring for the last time. It was a monstrous blue Ceylon sapphire surrounded by small, but exceptionally clear, diamonds. Susannah refers to it as “major bling.”

It was also a soap catcher that needed constant cleaning to look its best, and that, frankly, I was embarrassed to wear when it did look that way, because of all the attention it attracted.

“So this is really it, then,” Gabe said. Talk about quivering chins.

“All over but the shouting,” I said, forcing my mouth into what I hoped resembled a smile. “Only there won’t be any. But I do have a favor to ask of Ida. And since I’m giving her back her son, it shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

“So ask already,” she said. “You have my vord that I vill do it.”

“You know Miller’s Pond?”

“Of course. It’s right in front of this house—before the road.”

“That’s right. It gets pretty scummy over the winter, and doesn’t clear up until early summer. I want you to go outside, get a running start, and jump in the pond.”

“Vhat?”

“Go soak yourself, Ida.”

I pushed past her and ran outside.

There is no potion in this world, prescription or otherwise, that can heal a broken heart. They say only time can heal one, but it’s an awful saying, because time stands still for broken hearts. When I got home, all I wanted to do, after taking a long soak in the tub, was to burrow under my sheets and stay there until the pain went away.

Having already experienced the simple life, I reward myself now—but not without some guilt—by making my bed with sheets that have a thousand threads per square inch. Made from 136

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the finest Egyptian cotton, they feel every bit as soft and buttery as Gabe’s Italian leather couch. They do not, however, smell like butter. Well, not usually.

I’d just crawled into my den of white sheets and eiderdown comforters to hibernate when I got a whiff of this incongruous, but not unpleasant, scent. I peeked out cautiously. Perhaps there was a polar bear waiting to pounce on me.

“Freni!”

“Yah, as big as life and twice as ugly.”

I fought back a laugh, but it overpowered me and escaped as a snort. I dug deeper into my den.

“Freni, please go away.”

“Yah, I go, but first you eat.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“You do not have to be hungry to eat these cross aunts.” Her voice was muffled but still intelligible. Then again, maybe not. I poked my head out.

“Just which cross aunt did you have in mind, dear?”

“Ach, so now you make fun of me?”

“Freni, I’m not—oh,
those
cross aunts!” My dear kinswoman was holding a wooden tray in her stubby hands. On the tray was a plate of freshly baked, and buttered, croissants. Next to the plate of pastries was Mama’s chipped stoneware pot, one that was reserved only for hot cocoa.

“So now maybe you eat, yah?”

“If you insist, but I’m still not hungry.”

“I brought you some peach preserves for the cross aunts. The kind with the lumps.”

“You mean ‘chunks.’ ”

“Yah, that is what I said. Now, sit up, Magdalena.”

I did as ordered. Freni set the tray on my bedside table and then almost tenderly tucked a starched white napkin into the neck of my pajama top. After pouring a cup of steaming cocoa, she handed me a dessert plate upon which she’d arranged two HELL HATH NO CURRY

137

croissants, several pats of extra butter, and a gob of lumpy peach preserves.

“Now, eat,” she ordered.

“Only if you join me.”

“Ach!”

“I mean it. I’m not going to take a bite unless you do.”

“But there is only one small plate.”

“No problemo. I’ll hold the tray in my lap; that will be my plate. You get the real plate—but we’ll divide the rolls evenly.

And we can share the cup, knowing as I do that you don’t have cooties. But no backwash.”

“Yah, but—”

“No if, ands, or buts allowed. Take off your brogans and scootch under the covers with me. If crumbs fall on the bed, so what? That’s what washing machines are for.”

I never could have imagined it in a million years. My seventy-six-year-old cousin kicked off her heavy shoes and hoisted her considerable keester up onto my bed. Snuggled next to each other, we drank the entire pitcher of cocoa and ate four and a half croissants each. By the time we were through, my bedclothes were covered with grease spots, jam stains, chocolate stains, and more crumbs than there are sand grains in the Sahara. The entire time we probably said no more than five words.

When we were quite done, with our fingers licked clean, we belched in turn (age before beauty) and then shortly afterward fell asleep.

22

“Hey, Mom, what’s going on?”

I awoke to find my dear, sweet pseudo-stepdaughter poking me with the corner of her book bag.

“Alison! What time is it?”

She glanced at my bedside clock, which was still a blur to me.

“Seven thirty, I think. Ya need ta get one of them digital clocks—

hey, ya don’t never sleep in the afternoon. Are ya sick?”

“I was,” I said. “But I’m better now.” A truer statement was never spoken.

“Yeah?” Her eyes strayed to the other side of the bed. “What’s that lump under them covers? That ain’t Gabe, is it?”

“What?”
I jerked to a sitting position. There was indeed a lump under the covers. My dear kinswoman was still dead to the world, and had apparently pulled the covers over her head at some point.

“Y’are always yapping about how I shouldn’t have sex before marriage, Mom. If you ask me, this ain’t such a good example.”

She stepped sprightly around the end of the bed and whacked the sleeping lump with her satchel.